The current state of things.

Now that I'm writing again, it's hard to imagine how I didn't write for so long; and easy to imagine slipping away from it again, though I hope I won't.  Things to say, things to say.

I made crepes for the kids for dinner tonight.  To order.  Standing at the stove with the butter and tilting the frying pan this way and that.  Egg and cheese, egg, cheese, strawberries and Nutella, Nutella, powdered sugar.  I also raised my voice, because sometimes it feels like nobody listens unless I raise my voice.  I'm not proud of it, and I apologized.

And then I ate a pan of roasted brussels sprouts, rutabaga, and onion drizzled with olive oil, salt, and lemon juice, my current obsession.  Dave and I played four games of backgammon; he one three and I won one. 

Last week I almost burned the house down; I put the kettle on to boil and forgot all about it.  I forgot so hard that when I went back to the kitchen and smelled the burning, it took me a full three minutes to figure out where the smell was coming from.  I ruined the kettle and a favorite trivet (note to self: synthetic material sizzles and stinks!) in the process, and now we have a new trivet and a new electric kettle which blessedly turns itself off when the water boils.

None of these things is in the least bit interesting except insofar as I find myself writing about uninteresting and insignificant details, something I thought I might never do again after January 20, 2017.  It feels like a victory to be ruminating on roasted rutabaga and backgammon for a few minutes, and it feels like a betrayal.

I remember saying, back in November, a few weeks after the election when the world still spun on a familiar axis, that I didn't want to be constantly disturbed and I didn't want to stop being constantly disturbed.  How is a person to live inside that tension?  Inhabit the space between reality and the absurd?  

ab•surd (adjective) wildly illogical, unreasonable, or inappropriate.

A new vocabulary.  A new approach.  Unfamiliar bearings.  Sea legs.  Fall down, get up, try again.  

Make calls; write postcards; make postcards and share them with friends; read the news; take a break from reading the news; spend less time on Facebook; listen to more music in the car and less NPR; donate more money to NPR; put senators' phone numbers on speed dial; rally; buy tag board and poster paint; talk talk talk about values at the dinner table; talk talk talk about politics at the dinner table; long for a simpler time; take up yoga; take up meditation; walk the dog around the block in double time; clean out the basement; find every opportunity to perpetrate an act of kindness; recognize acts of kindness, call them out and raise them up and celebrate them because each one is a spark in the darkness; roast vegetables; make crepes to order; raise your voice; apologize for raising your voice; wash the dishes; read a book; read a political book; read a poem; carry on; resist; persist; breathe.

Tomorrow, a word about courage.